Stitches
by Gemagi-chan
Summary: Glimpses into the muddled minds of a Zipperhead and Princess


**Stitches**

_**Observance**_

She knew every rip, every thread, every detail of his jacket. Something about it comforted her, a familiar uniform that flitted past her youthful eyes during happier days. She developed a habit of twisting the loose, golden embroidery around her fingers if it was within range. Would clutch the light, airy fabric of his worn white button up shirt, hidden behind tattered brown sleeves, when she was startled, or afraid. It calmed her.

_This_, of all things, is what his inner scientist observed.

_**Arithmetic**_

When he had a full brain, he would stand in the shadows of the dance hall, 100% the withering wall flower, a shadow against the dance hall. When his noggin was full, it was 4/5 full with algorithms and blueprints and plans and..._ideas_. With all his marbles, he would be 10 times less likely to be _holding_ her _hand_, trekking through rough foliage to an unknown fate.

_**Helmet**_

She had to laugh. Despite his sporadic personality, there were times he would repeat a gesture, a movement, a _look_ from times long past. The outraged expression, the strained and offended chords rung from his throat when Cain had accused him of being a convict, were repeated in every way, as if watching a re-run, when Cain had blithely stated that should DG ever get her motorcycle back, there would be no need for him to wear any gear to protect his head; it would be pointless.

_**Tantrum**_

It was the last crack he could tolerate with a smiling face. Calmly, after DG's magic doll trick had blown what was left of his mind, he re-asserted himself, and, after the further blow to his ego of being pointed in the _correct_ direction of South, moved with purpose, pursed lips, and more than a little bitterness, towards their _next_ destination; another piece of the puzzle, another companion.

Footsteps close on the back of his, he waited for another sly comment, attempting to create a witty comeback. A hand on his shoulder halted him; the follower slowed briefly.

"I thought you looked fine in that picture".

He could only smile at her leather-clad back.

_**All**_

It was times like these he wished he had a full, _proper_ mind from the beginning, instead of the dregs that Azkadelia deemed unworthy to take. Yes, with a full brain he could easily bring down the Sorceress with his travel mates; maybe even alone, to spare them from the imminent danger. Yes, he could have revealed DG's identity, and very purpose, as Ambrose, much sooner; save them all the cryptic bull they had been dragged half way across the OZ for. But more than that, at this very moment in time, he wished he had a complete, functioning mind, to decipher these odd and completely foreign feelings that muddled his fragile heart. And mind.

_**Pontificate**_

He spoke with respect, reserve and formality; even with half a brain, he knew what his place was in the eyes of the people. Or he thought he did.

She spoke with elegance, airs, and only when spoken to; she knew the people were relying on her to play the part.

Only in the privacy of each others arms could they drop the roles they were tasked within the pompous, extravagant walls of the castle, and be who they were at heart.

_**Approximate**_

It was approximately 10:00pm when he had caught a glimpse of gold.

10:00pm when he had dragged the gang over to the window; Cain reluctantly helping the zipperhead out.

10:01pm when he attempted to be clever; forgetting the question not moments after he asked it, but being amused, along with his furrier travel buddy, by the answer nonetheless.

10:05pm when she gracefully joined them on the pavement, all to willing to assist the travellers for a price.

10:06pm when she stalked away, blonde locks swaying flirtatiously in time with her silken-clad hips.

10:07pm when DG unapologetically smacked Glitch in the back of his head, the zipper jingling with the force of impact.

It was at the rising of the first moon after midnight he was warned to keep his eye on DG, for his benefit along with hers.

_**Nourish**_

Apples were on his mind.

Her mind.

_Everyone's_ mind.

Aside from the excellent vitamins and nutrients they contained, and the simple fact that the troupe had scarcely eaten a bite in days, a reality that made it's presence known every so often with the deep rumbling gurgle of neglected stomachs, and exhausted sighs that immediately followed; and aside from the images of _just_ rotted apples burnt into their malnourished minds, taunting and smelling and almost _tempting_, almost; apples lead both DG and Glitch down paths that tapered off into uncertainty and frustration.

Memories that didn't begin; memories that didn't end.

Fragments of green grass, bears, and a little princess offering a vizier a shiny red treat, in all earnest.

_**Yet**_

She couldn't remember who her mother was, _yet_.

He wasn't sure if he was a headcase or head advisor, _yet_.

She didn't know who to trust, _yet_.

He could barely remember his name, _yet_.

She wasn't prepared to be a princess, _yet_.

He wasn't prepared to make that decision, _yet_.

With the OZ on the brink of a new era, neither noticed how deep in they were together.

_Yet_.

_**Divide**_

If they had one thing in common, it was losing things.

Brains, memories, homes, family, thoughts.

Time.

Wandering around a divided land with fractured minds, their lives were merely hearsay; annuals of nothingness the perfect blank slate to fill with deceitful stories of convenience. Alliances that did not always aline.

The only truth they had was that none of it could possibly be; inconsistencies became consoling, because if it didn't make sense it couldn't possibly be true; these awful, horrendous events that for them never happened, and could be pushed into the far reaches of misfired synapses and guarded pasts.

The here and now was how they found themselves smiling.

Together.

_**Root**_

Roots. Stumps. Vines. _Stones_. It didn't take much for Glitch to fall. DG was always the one to catch him, or at the very least, pick him up afterwards. He knew this more than anything, undoubtedly and unconditionally, she would grab him, pull him, re-adjust him until he was firmly standing on solid ground, beside her.

This time though, for the first time, he had to wonder, _very hard_, if she would catch him.

If he fell for her.

_**Sombre**_

Perhaps it was the sunny disposition he had been left with after the operation that had drawn DG to him the most out of her mismatched companions. The constant noise, no matter how repetitive or ridiculous, kept her mind distant from the quiet, isolated wheat fields of Kansas that she had been robbed of. She would have thought it ironic, considering the sombre, stoic, some would say anti-social, inventor that was Ambrose, was now making her journey that little more bearable.

She would have thought it ironic, if she remembered.


End file.
